S'more
by netherfield
Summary: Following up on last season's 'More.' Stand alone episode additions as the mood strikes. Number Nine: The Prodigal Daughter Returns.
1. Improved

6.01 _The New and Improved Lorelai. _As Luke comes in...

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"Hey... You, okay? _Lorelai_, what is it?"

"Nothing... Sorry... You said— _a moment_, a moment ago? Something about _a moment_?"

"Lorelai, what's going on?"

"It's... nothing."

"You're sitting here in the dark, in Rory's room, crying. That's not nothing."

"I'm not crying."

"I'm no Este Lauder, but I'm pretty sure mascara isn't supposed to run vertically down your cheeks like that. Has something happened?"

"No... _Yes_... My mother... then, _Rory._.. _Ugh! _It shouldn't be like this, Luke!"

"I'm still up for that kidnaping intervention thing."

"I know. Which is part of why I love you so much."

"Well, I love you too..."

"You're cute when you smile like that."

"I am not cute."

"You are. How do you do it?"

"Be cute?"

"Always find a way to make me feel better?"

"Ah. Well, usually it involves a certain liquid stimulant and Deep Frying Crisco."

"_Dirty! _And, yes, those things certainly contribute to the overall happiness you bestow. But mostly, it's just you."

"I don't like to see you so upset about Rory. It's not right for you two."

"No, it isn't. But it's the right thing for _right now_. She needs to figure this out, Luke. For herself."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I am that my mother wouldn't be caught dead in flip flops... _Oh, My God_!"

"_What!_"

"I just hit on _the one thing _my mother and I have in common. So not what I want to focus on tonight."

"You both love Rory."

"Yes... Let's not talk about that now, please, Luke. Let's focus on us."

"_Lorelai._..."

"I'm serious, Luke..."

"Fine."

"Before, you said— _a moment_."

"The moon is full... I wanted to take you outside to... give you something."

"_Something?_"

"Yes."

"Outside?"

"Yes."

"You want to give me _something outside_?"

"Under the full moon, yes."

"You want to give me _something outside under the full_—"

"_Lorelai!_"

"What!"

"Stop the echo, I'm begging you! Could we just go outside now?"

"For _the moment_?"

"Yes..."

"The _moment outside_...?"

"Stop!"

"You know I don't need _another_ moment, Luke. You know that, right? The moment we hadthe othernight... Well, that was perfect by me. No way to improve on _that _moment..."

"It was pretty great, wasn't it?"

"Yep."

"But now I want another moment _My _moment."

"Okay, Luke. _Your_ moment. Gotcha."

"Good."

"_Your_ moment outside, under the full—"

"Move your ass outside now, Gilmore!"

"Im going! I'm going! Hey, can we go up to bed afterwards?"

"Absolutely."

"But, Luke, no Zima tonight."

"Fine."

"Because, _Oy!_ The dreams I had..."

"Keep moving. Keep moving..."

"First Paris had Rory tied up in a deserted warehouse and was trying to brainwash her into going back to Yale with this really bright light..."

"Out the door, please..."

"And then, get this; _Maisie won an Emmy_!"

"Lorelai, _the moment _is slipping away..."

"It's just thatthe other nightI said we should have sex and Zima every night..."

"Lorelai, what is your point?"

"My point is: No Zima tonight."

"Fine. Fine. No Zima tonight."

"Good. That's all I'm saying. No Zima. Only bad dreams come from Zima. Bad, _bad_ dreams, Luke. And I'm not talking 'bad' as in _good_ 'bad.'

"Okay. Stop here. The Chuppah. This'll work. Unless... you associate it with...?"

"No. The Chuppah's good. I'm definitely ready for _the moment _now, Luke... Hey, what's wrong?"

"We can still have the sex though, right?"

"What?"

"I mean no Zima is fine, but..."

"Oh, right. The sex. Sure. Sex is good.."

"Good, good..."

"Okay! Let _The Moment _begin!"

"..."

"Luke... what's wrong now?"

"Did you say----_Maisie won an Emmy_?"


	2. Face

6.02 **_Fight Face_**. The following weekend...

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"Can I open my eyes now?"

"No."

"I don't like this being blindfolded thing."

"Really? Huh. Funny. 'Cause I always thought of you as such a spur-of-the-moment, loving-the-unknown kind of guy."

"Well, I'm not."

"Now he tells me."

"Lorelai..."

"Just a minute longer, Luke, I promise. Then all will be revealed."

"If there are any cameras in the vicinity, or Ron Popeil, I'm taking back the ring."

"Okay... Untying blindfold now... Wait----Why would Ron Popeil be here?"

"You know, Candid Camera."

"He's not the Candid Camera guy. He's the Slice-'Em-Dice-'Em guy. The Ronco guy. Although, I wonder if the Candid Camera guy is still alive? I should google..."

"Loreali!"

"What!"

"Blindfolded here!"

"Oh, right! Sorry. Here we go...There! Blindfold off... Ta-Da!"

"What's this?"

"This, my friend, is BoyWorld!"

"_Boy_ world?"

"Don't say it like that. It's---BoyWorld!"

"Boy world..."

"We've really got to work on this echoing each other thing."

"There's a tent..."

"You should see your face right now..."

"You didn't set that up by yourself did you?"

"It's priceless..."

"I mean, if I go in there, it's not going to fall on my head or anything...?"

"Relax. Eastside Tilly helped me."

"Lorelai, why did you set up a tent in your back yard?"

"I told you. It's Boy...—"

"Boy world. I know. But..."

"No, no, Luke. It's--BoyWorld! For you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, for tonight. To get more in touch with your inner...—"

"Geez. Not that again."

"Yes, Luke, _that _again. It's just for fun. To relax a bit. Look, I've got an extension cord going in. See? There's a little fridge and sleeping bags with pillows, and a stuffed fish..."

"A stuffed fish?"

"BoyWorld! needs ambience too, Luke."

"Silly me."

"...And there's even a little television. You can chill out, relax, scratch, or whatever it is that guys do, and watch that game tonight. See? It's BoyWorld!"

"Stop saying that. And, which game?"

"Aren't the Blue Socks playing those Swimming Thingies or something?"

"Or something."

"Well, there you go."

"So you want me to camp here in your backyard tonight?"

"Not my backyard any more, Luke. Not tonight. Tonight: BoyWorld!"

"It does look pretty comfortable..."

"Yes, it does. And I've got beer and those big man sandwiches too. Paul Anka and I could even be persuaded to join you... if you like. Or, if not, you can just have BoyWorld! all to yourself."

"No, I'd rather have company. Yours anyway. And, could we call it something else, please?"

"We can call it whatever you like... Luke, you're smiling..."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You like BoyWorld!"

"Do you promise not to babble inanely during the game?"

"I promise my babble will not be inane during the game."

"Well... okay, then. Thanks. It looks... fun. Sorta."

"That's my boy. And, you're welcome. You'll have to kill all the bugs, you know."

"Well, sure."

"Oh, look, Luke! Paul Anka likes tents! _You like tents, don't you, Paul Anka? Don't you, boy? Yes, you do. Yes, you do..._"

"Wait a minute."

"What?"

"You hate sleeping outside."

"Yes."

"Well, I'll be fine here in boy...whatever... on my own. Go back and sleep in the house."

"Can't."

"Why not? I patched up the hole in the wall and managed to refrain from killing TJ. At the same time, I might add."

"I know. Admirable, by the way. And I appreciate it. But it's creepy in there now, Luke. Like that Lemony Snicket house on the edge of the cliff over the ocean..."

"So sleep in Rory's room, then."

"Can't"

"Why not?"

"It's occupied."

"Ah, geez! Is Kirk in there again?"

"No."

"Oh...You don't mean...?"

"Yes, I do. No more being in the middle for you, Mister. You're in a tent, true, but not the middle any longer."

"But... but how?"

"I yielded the high ground."

"Oh. But my point was that having the high ground doesn't mean anything... not really."

"I know."

"So that's all it took?"

"Well, that, and a part-time job at the Literacy Center. Not to mention my mother's foolish step-too-far of setting up weekly comb-outs and teasing with Miss Tina."

"That does sound like a final straw."

"Emily was relentless, God bless her. No one needs to have helmet hair before the age of twenty-one. Worth swallowing your pride every time."

"True. But meaningful work is good too."

"Yep."

"And a mom who wants the best for you."

"C'mon, Luke, must be kick-off time soon."

"Lorelai, it's baseball."

"So we get peanuts?"

"Hey, I'm proud of you, and... you are a great mom."

"Not really. But I love my kid and I'm doing the best I can."

"Well, that's good too. And... I love you, you know."

"Ah, you're a softy."

"Not in BoyWorld! I'm not. You wanna play frisbee before the game?"

"But what about my nails? I got a special 'engagement ring manicure'."

"There are no manicures in BoyWorld, sweetheart. Suck it up!"

"Man, BoyWorld! is tough. Good thing I love you, too."

"For that you get to play with the flashlight later... "

"..."

"You're gonna say it, are you?"

"Well, I was, but I'm distracted by Paul Anka right now, so I'll take a raincheck. Ooh! That's baseball talk, isn't it?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"Just guessing here, but I think he's scared of the stuffed fish."


	3. Un

6.03 **_The Ungraduate_**... Lorelai's come to bed after her late night at the Inn...

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There's that smell.

That smell that's come to mean home. That isn't so much smelled really as breathed in then recognized in a deep heart-place. She can't identify its components but finds it far more satisfying than any chocolate or sex or great movie could ever be. And, she's come to recognize this... peace, (for that's what it is) as not only home now, but love. Real and abiding, nurturing, and not about the fear that is interlaced with the love one has for a child.

The love-fear for a baby (whatever age) one has birthed is, after all, primal and protective. Fierce even. One can never fully be at peace with it. Its depth just won't allow that, even when you're trying with every fiber of your being to be the coolest mom on the planet. You just can't be sure, ever, however hard you rationalize, that your child is, at all times, perfectly safe. No one tells you that life-long fear will be your constant companion before you have a baby, but it dawns on you pretty damn quick. Part of this fear, too, is knowing that your child will never fully understand it until they are a parent themselves.

Well, that's motherhood.

But the peace with Luke, the smell that is the peace, (same thing really) and the love that is interwoven within it, and has crept up at a most surprising time in her life, allows her to burrow down and be taken care of. To let go. It welcomes and grows with her vulnerability. And it's all wrapped up beautifully in flannel and is just always gonna be there.

She knows that now.

But, as she cozies down into bed, her dog on the floor below, she's still far too awake, her mind whirling through all that she's tried to keep at bay by making life busier than it ought to be, to rest quite yet. Not really. Because the love-fear, the my-baby-is-out-there-and-anything-can-happen-love-fear always, always comes back in the dark.

Even as she lays between the two newest pillars of her family, on guard at either side, absorbing the air surely permeated with their love for her, she's just not gonna get to sleep yet.

So, despite the smell, despite that she's now pressing her feet, cold from padding quietly around the dark apartment, against his warm legs (he doesn't flinch, but moves closer to her, warming her, caring for her even in his sleep---another mark of home...) Even as her sweet dog softly snores...

She's twirling her hair and remembering. And knows she can't share all the new loves in her life with her most abiding. And that she won't have a family until she's found a way to stitch together again all that's been undone.

Rory had been a child comprised of complex sets of opposites.

Beautiful as light reflecting off china, yet sober as a hymn. Full of unasked questions though hungry to know. Happy to live in a world of her own making, but yearning to step out into real life.

As a child who'd lost her own youth early, Lorelai had fiercely guarded that of her daughter's. Perhaps it had been wrong. What the hell had she other than instinct? She well knew, in her heart of hearts, that her daughter had steel within too. That she could be strong enough to find her own way... But she worried now that she'd never be given that true chance. That true gift.

So she sighed then and turned to spoon her back into Luke and watch Paul Anka's breath rise and fall, fingering the comforter as memory took hold of her exhausted mind...

Rory hadn't ever had the interest in sewing that she had. She herself had come to respect it. The puzzle work of laying out the pattern, the fretting to get seams into alignment. The heaven-sent, chest-puffing pride one felt to hold something in hand, something real and practical and beautiful and, most of all, useful.

It felt... grown up. Something a lonely teenage mom spends a lot of time pretending to be, but gets very little genuine practice experiencing.

There is also a letting go of self in sewing. A Zen-kinda thing, she imagined. Or, as close to it as her caffeine-addicted body would ever come to know.

Forcing herself into the patience sewing requires, the undoing of stitches set wrong, then the remaking of it all again, had helped her forge her way. She'd taught herself from library books; Used an old machine she'd found at the Inn. In short, she'd been resourceful, stuck to it, failed, picked up again, and, finally, mastered it.

Little summer dresses for her daughter, and shorts with elastic waist bands graduated into snazzy little jackets and, at last, quilts. And little Rory would sit nearby reading or coloring to the hum of the machine, her own Zen in these.

And that was much of the life in the pretty little potting shed. Humming and reading. Sometimes music on the radio. Macaroni and cheese. Playing monopoly on the bed on winter's nights wearing three sweatshirts apiece.

Sometimes five year old Rory would let her mother drape her in fabric scraps for fun, then eight year old Rory would occasionally help her lay out the colorful quilt blocks, but she would always retreat to the warm corner to read soon after, leaving her mother to the real work of stitching.

Which was fine. She liked the work of putting a quilt together. She loved the feeling of seeing the quilt finished, and she was more than content to wrap it warmly around her daughter at night. It made her feel like she might just be a real mother after all, and not just a little girl playing house. It meant that she was 'taking care of things.'

Quilting requires precise cutting, an eye for color, a certain perception of shape and space, the willingness to not overthink the scheme of it all, absolute attention to the up-down thrum of the needle, and love.

And because Lorelai strove to master these, her daughter need not. That's how such things often work between parents and children. But, as skills have been passed from mother to daughter throughout history by a sort proximal osmosis, so must (she fervently prays) the real lessons of the work.

She doesn't give a rat's ass if Rory never sews a stitch in her life. That isn't the point at all.

She watched then as Paul Anka squirmed, struggling with a bad dream. A watch-sporting wrist perhaps. Or maybe just an escaping rabbit.

She wiggled back, closer still to Luke and his warm smell, and thought then about the simplest of all quilts to make: Block patterns. It's where new quilters invariably begin. Getting that middle right is the trickiest part, where the four corners come together. Lining them up perfectly isn't easy at all. She's stitched, ripped out, and stitched again hundreds of times to get the ideal balance.

This is especially difficult with fabrics of different weights. A flannel is heavier than dotted swiss, and silk lighter than corduroy. And most books strongly advise against quilting with different weights of fabric, but she, of course, had tried. With mixed results.

A lot of sewing. A lot of undoing. A lot of work to stitch it finally, tightly together...

But worth the work. So worth the work, she thought as she yawned and drifted...

Because you just can't get completely warm until the quilt is finished...


	4. God

6.04 **_Always a Godmother, Never a God_**. The following day.

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An ache thudded through her when she paused in front of the large glass display window.

An ache edged by a rueful laugh. So, a rue-flache then? All within, of course, because she couldn't explain it very well really, not even to him (though she knew he would try to understand.)

But she knows that at such a time in a man's life as this he wants to think that his lady love is focused solely on him. And well, just look at him: He's wonderful!

But back to the window and the funny t-shirts displayed there.

It made her rue-flache all over again, still inwardly, as she looked up at them: The first was neon grape and read _'I'm Too Sexy To Be 80!_'; The other, a soft lemon yellow, shouted _'I Used To Skinny Dip But Now I Chunky Dunk!' _

And she couldn't decide which was funnier. Just couldn't decide. It didn't matter really because the only one who would truly 'get' it wasn't with her.

She should be. Today of all days, she should be, God knows.

But things are just so hard with her right now. Too hard. And the ache over this loss is not a rue-flache at all, but real, deep, and ever present.

So she hasn't tried to call yet though she knows she should.

And she knows too that it hasn't all been about the not going back to school. Not exactly. But about back turning, and wheel spinning, and some other cliched metaphor about floating around somewhere without one of the those big ice-cream spoon thingamabobs that require manual labor to keep your boat moving.

And later that evening, after the fine bottle of wine and delicious food that has come to be part of what her life with him is, (and will be from now on, she supposed,) she couldn't stop thinking about those stupid t-shirts.

She just should've bought them, that's all. They could've been souvenirs of the special day.

But no, that wouldn't work.

No one wants a souvenir of the special day they missed.

There'll be the photos, of course. You have to have those, even for the simplest of these sorts of things. And the last minute dress she found to wear so pretty, and her handsome fella all cleaned up and shiny, though looking a little sheepish and worse for the wine (making him all the more adorable.)

And because digital photography is what it is she has the pictures in hand even now and their day wasn't even over yet. There's still more wine to drink and the little nosegay of orchids he bought her fills the room with heady romance.

Like a movie.

Only in the movie the bride wouldn't be inwardly rue-flaching over comic t-shirts. She'd be dancing to Cole Porter, with a Marseille wave in her hair, and diamond clips, or something like that.

And she wouldn't have any panty lines either! She'd been afraid all day that she'd had panty lines when they stood up together, even though he'd assured her to the contrary. There was only one definitive opinion on panty lines that mattered as far as she was concerned.

Which was a pretty funny thought to think after another bottle of expensive vino's been kicked.

And as he, sexy devil that he is, screwed (dirty!) the opener into yet one more, she had a sudden epiphany: _What if she just called now? _

What if she just called now and turned the other cheek and all that other good Samaritan crap?

The special day wasn't technically over yet, so it wouldn't be a complete miss for her, would it?

That's it. She'll be sweet and take the high road. And, really, who can get angry at anyone on their wedding day? Right?

A leeetle more wine would help, though...

And she's sure he'll understand if she takes a few moments to call. He knows their connection. Wants this reconciliation for her, after all. Understands its presence in her life. He wouldn't mind a few moments lost out of their honeymoon eve.

He's great that way.

So she sloshed slightly to the phone, hoping that the just bought sexy nightie made up for her lack of grace, and reached for the phone...

She'd just tell her the whole story, that's all. It's pretty romantic after all. And she'll be thrilled, that's just what she'll be... Right?

Sure she will. (She'll love the part about the helicopter, 'cause who wouldn't?)

She gazed down at the shining band on her finger and swayed a bit as the phone rang at the other end of the line until, at last, she answered...

"Hello?"

"Mom...?"

Maybe she should tell her about the t-shirts first.


	5. Magic

(Note: The previous segment was from Rory's drunken, just eloped, point of view. The shopping for clothes and the helicopter were supposed to be clues to this. Kudos to those sharpsters who figured it out. Tomatoes at the author who flew too a bit too subtly below the radar.)

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6.05 **_We've Got Magic To Do_**. A day or so later.

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Damn if you just gotta face up to some things in life.

Like when you've gone back to the department store to return a bag you've brought home by accident, and then stop by the cosmetics counter for just a moment to get a sample of that new miracle eye-cream when, lo and behold, _'Rock Lobster' _starts to play over the store sound system.

Not _'Rock Lobster' _as you knew and loved it: Cool and alternative; Friends dancing in a crush in somebody's living room, (parents gone to the Hamptons for the weekend, furniture pushed against walls,) as you all _'down, down, down...' _to the words of the music, and writhe frenetically about to the beat.

(Which is fleetingly disturbing because of the Kirk images it conjures...)

No, _this_ 'Rock Lobster' has been smoothed over like creamy peanut butter onto Wonder bread. A mere ghost of its former self, it has become elevator music. Which is sadder than the fact that you really should buy the large size of that new miracle eye cream rather than just flirting with a sample.

And suddenly there you are driving home in the rain facing all sorts of stuff which is best not thought about at all. Like the deepening creases around your mouth, and slight puffiness under the eyes. So, age mostly.

But you tell yourself that's all right, really.

The dream business is in place. The dream man. And though the Lorelai-look might be over, you haven't exactly graduated to elastic-waist pants or St. John's knits... yet.

(This thought crossed her mind as she pulled out of the mall parking lot.)

xx xx xx

There's also knowing that though facing age and puffiness and creases are one thing, starting over is another. And that is what she must do. Start over. Reinvent the Lorelai she was, the ever-vigilant mother and provider, the custodian of magic for her too-serious daughter, into the Lorelai that must be.

For the third time in her life, she must leave comfort and stability and create from nothing (but inner resource,) a new life, a new self.

Well, not from nothing. She has a support system now, she knows. And she is learning. Learning to be a partner rather than a mother, learning what real vulnerability is...

(She pulled under the cover of a gas station to fill up her tank then and watched the rain splash as she waited.)

She'll do it. She knows this. And happily. She'll settle into the re-made house and re-made life. Share a checking account. Keep vegetables around, regularly wash five thousand pounds of flannel and denim, andeven halflisten to the drone of some game she'll never be able to clearly identify playing on tv. (All terrifying thoughts when one is no longer an ingenue.)

Because she loves him so much.

And yet, there's the fact that her daughter is still gone tipping it all slightly out of balance.

Which causes a hitch in her breathing, and a clench in her heart even now, even when she's held her resolve so long. Yeah, she's let her bitterness get to her here and there along the way, and she's not proud of that, but she must continue to believe that Rory will find her way yet.

What that way might be scares the hell out of her. But just as she must now re-create herself (because at her time in life that is what marriage must amount to,) so must her daughter, though perhaps at twenty it is not so much recreation as the initial creation itself.

(She topped off her tank then and reached for her receipt when a little shop across the corner caught her eye. Normally she wasn't really a thrift kinda gal, but the elementary school _was_ having its annual collection and redistribution of winter coats next week...)

xx xx xx xx

She filled her arms as she walked the aisles.

A little quilted parka, a flannel-lined denim with a tattered Strawberry Shortcake on the pocket, a bright green wool pea coat...

And his words, murmured in the dark (where he always spoke best,) warm flesh sealing them together, swept through her again...

'_A man doesn't look for years... He doesn't just look and look..._'

(And she wondered about this because, really, how much looking could he have done from behind the counter of a diner? though, wisely, let it pass...)

'_He doesn't just up and go camping when he finally finds her... He doesn't want to... Maybe when he's twenty-two he does... but not when he's forty-six... When he's found her, it doesn't_ _matter what the hell he does with her... He's just glad... Glad he's finally got her... And he's not just gonna let go of her to go fishing... I've been fishing... For years I fished... Told myself it was better... I was better off... I wasn't... When you finally get what you want you don't pretend fishing is better...'_

'_Luke, I'm not going anywhere_,' she'd whispered back.

'_That's right.._.' he'd yawned...

And soon she drifted too, but only after his soft snore vibrated through them. It had become their way by then. Their remaking of sleep.

So that was part of the new life too, she thought, as she scooped up a handful of safety-pinned mittens from a bin.

She'd coveted her independence through the years. And though it had been born out of necessity, she'd come to bask in it, be proud of it even, for its price had been high.

And independence is not an easy thing to let go of. Not at all. Luke Danes was not coming cheaply, that was for sure. And she'd sincerely thought he'd want breaks to do guy sorts of things, and had been caught off guard by the intensity of his passion to be with her. To forge their togetherness in the real as well as the intimate. The ease with which he shook off his loner-life surprised her.

She'd equated Loner with Independence and that had been a mistake. These are the things you learn about people you thought you knew. This is what love is.

"Quality will out, Lorelai," Emily's imperious voice broke into her thoughts, as she eyed a pile of small snow boots in the corner. "Worthwhile things cost."

She looked about then, wondering if there were any mufflers too.

"In the basket at the back," smiled an older woman at the counter, after she asked.

She set her pile down and headed to them accordingly.

She found six in good shape in various lengths and colors and thought about how she'd always wanted to learn to knit.

She laughed a bit then, imagining she and Luke years and years from now, bent and bifocaled, she knitting, he making them some sort of vegetable mush.

"Something funny?" smiled Molly (the elderly lady wore a nametag) as she began to ring up the pile.

"No, no," she brushed off.

"Do you have a lot of children?"

"What? Oh, the coats. No. It's for our elementary school. For the kids who don't have any."

"Very nice," smiled Molly. "Pretty ring. You're engaged?"

"Yep."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. Are you married, Molly?"

"Forty-six years in January."

"Wow. Congratulations to you too."

"Thank you. That'll be thirty-six fifty."

"So, Molly..." she leaned in, "Any regrets?"

"Many," laughed Molly. "But I still love him. Bugs the hell outta me sometimes, but I still love him."

Lorelai nodded and paid her.

"How 'bout advice, Molly---Got anything good?"

Molly eyed her over the trash bag she was stuffing with the children's coats, "Wear comfortable shoes at your wedding."

"Hmm... Comfortable shoes? Never tried that before."

"I didn't think so. You won't regret it though. Let me help you get these out to the car..."

xx xx xx

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Hey, you. Where are you?"

"I'm driving back from the mall."

"Really? It's late. Everything okay?"

"Fine. I stopped on the way."

"What for?"

"Shopping."

"Ask a silly question..."

"So, camping was good?"

"Camping was okay. You're better."

"I love you too."

"So what did you buy?"

"Fifteen second hand children's coats."

"Again, ask a silly..."

"Hey, Luke, I need your help with something."

"What's that?"

"Well, I found a dress..."

"A dress?"

"Well, The Dress. Maybe. At least I think so..."

"_The Dress_? What does that mean?"

"Think about it, Luke."

"Oh, right: The Dress."

"The most important of all dresses, Luke."

"Right, well, that's great."

"I found it at this vintage place."

"So it's a used dress?"

"An _antique_, Luke. A real deal. Nineteen-thirties, vintage bugle beads. Satin like that can't be found any more. Needs a little repair but nothing I couldn't manage."

"Well, that sounds great."

"Only, I didn't buy it."

"I'm a little confused. I thought you said it was The Dress."

"I think so."

"So why didn't you buy it?"

"I want you to see it first. To be sure."

"Isn't that bad luck or something?"

"I don't care. It's an important decision. To me anyway. I want you to help me make it."

"When can I see it?"

"Molly will hold it until Wednesday."

"Tomorrow's good for me."

"Good..."

"Good..."

"I'll be home soon."

"Drive carefully. It's still pouring here.."

"I will. It's still pouring here too."

"I'll keep dinner warm until you get here."


	6. House

6.06 _Welcome to The Dollhouse_ (great movie, by the way) A few weeks later.

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"No."

"It's already been done, Luke. Besides, you did agree."

"The conditions under which I agreed were unfair."

"Sweetie, they were totally fair. Move that box, will you, please..."

"Over here?"

"Yes, thanks."

"How were the conditions fair?"

"Hang your jeans on the lower bar there. The were fair because history is on my side."

"History? I need more hangers. What the hell has history got to do with it?"

"Hangers under the sweater stack on the bed. Yes, _history_, Luke. For thousands of years, women have cleverly waited until their husbands were post orgasmic, to pose propositions. Timing is key. The level of blood flowing in the male brain is key. Everyone knows that. You agreed, my friend, and there is no going back. Shoe tree, please."

"Here. Logic flaw, though: I am not yet your husband."

"You will be in three weeks, and the invitations are being delivered even now because you totally agreed. Wanna see what I'm gonna wear on the wedding night?"

"Don't try to distract me. Where should I put my socks?"

"The tall dresser. But, see, Luke, it's all black and lacy, and... more than slightly transparent..."

"Hmmm, yeah... Maybe you should try it on..."

"So you admit you agreed?"

"So we can be sure it fits..."

"The invitations, Luke?"

"Let me help you try it on..."

"Luke? _Mmmmm... _Down, fella..."

"Yes, I agreed, okay?... Wedding invitations written on Etcha-sketches by TJ, then delivered by Kirk was a wonderful and original idea, okay?... now, let's forget about that... Here, let me get those buttons for you..."

"But, Luke...We'll never get you moved in at this rate..."

"Oh, I don't know about that..."

"Ha... Dirty, dirty, dirty..."

"Buttons, buttons, buttons... buttons, tricky..."

"Tell you what..."

"_Hmmmm? _Oh, got another undone!"

"Very good. You clear off the bed and put your socks in the drawer, while I go in there to slip into something... less... buttony..."

"And more transparent?"

"Yep."

"How about we skip all those steps and just knock all this stuff outta the way..."

"Socks, Luke. Bottom drawer. I'll be right back... You know after the tension builds a little, it's all the better in the end..."

"Hmmm... Dirty."

"Socks!"

"Fine. Which drawer? Tootsie roll or Lip Smacker?"

"Don't be silly! Tootsie roll, of course!"

"Right... because I roll my socks."

"That's my boy! I'm almost ready!"

"For the nut house!"

"Oh, honey, you know that shark's been jumped."


	7. Loneliest

6.07 _Twenty-One is The Loneliest Number_. Much, much later that night.

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An ipod.

An ipod and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, a leather journal, and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, a leather journal, a pair of tickets for Der Rosenkavalier at The Met,

and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, a leather journal, a pair of tickets for Der Rosenkavalier at The Met,

a vintage necklace (which warms her right through to remember,) and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, a leather journal, a pair of tickets for Der Rosenkavalier at The Met,

a vintage necklace, a Waterford vase, and a string of pearls.

An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, a leather journal, a pair of tickets for Der Rosenkavalier at The Met,

a vintage necklace, a Waterford vase, a Coach wallet, and a string of pearls...

(She does a shot every time she remembers 'string of pearls' No one noticed the bottle of vodka gone she snuck... sneaked? ---_took_ from the bar. Hee. _Snuck_ is a funny word, rhymes with...)

Oh! Almost forgot: Engraved Monogrammed Stationery.

And; a Mont Blanc pen, three Irish linen handkerchiefs, an Hermes scarf, and a bottle of Cristal...

(Another shot for good measure. What the hell? She's alone in her room—the upstairs one which isn't hers at all really, anyway.A_ Backstreet Boys _posterGeez. And, hey, does she even have a real room anymore? Is a strange, hungry, and hopefully not dead dog sleeping in it right now? Wait a minute. No. Not hers, that room. Twenty-one year olds don't live at home...)

Let's see... What else? What else?

What else can she remember as the bed spins below her in the dark, silent, perfect, pink room...

Oh! The antique inkwell and writing desk from Tweenie.

Jesus, what a lot of thank you notes. There goes all that engraved stationery.

(she did a shot for that.)

But there still sits that gift from her.

Right there. Didn't open that one yet.

No, shehas not.

Emily was too tired to notice (_can't open gifts in front of the guests, Rory, we don't live in a trailer park, after all..._)

So she'd hidden it away until Emily and Richard were down for the night.

(she listened then to Richard snore through the wall and did a shot for that too.)

But now, if she could just sit up, she'd could open her mother's present.

Her twenty-first birthday present from her mother.

(a quick shot on the way to the end of the bed where the present sits—it's a very large bed.)

Final Tally: An ipod, a digital camera, a cd, a leather journal, a pair of tickets for Der Rosenkavaklier at The Met, a vintage necklace, a Waterford vase, a Coach wallet, Engraved Stationery, a Mont Blanc pen, three Irish linen handkerchiefs, an Hermes scarf, a bottle of Cristal, an antique inkwell and writing desk, three books about wine, two about modern sculpture, a hot water bottle (what the hell?)...

And (now, at last, as she ripped off the ribbon and lifted the lid:) A videotape (vhs) of the CopRock Series Premiere (original commercials intact;) The purple My Little Pony (cause who'd want the pink?) Twenty-one packages of Abba Zabbas (the large ones)...

And...

(on the bottom wrapped specially in silver tissue)

A first edition autographed copy of 'My Life' by Rosa Parks...

Which is when she began to cry so hard, and in such large gulping sobs, that she had to wrap her arms around herself and rock a little, forgetting the game then, forgetting to remember 'the string of pearls' and the sushi, and the shots...

Wanting so badly to just go home.


	8. Ring

6.08 _Let Your Balalaikas Ring Out_.

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The New Yorker, January 12, 2007, New Writer's Edition

An excerpt from **_Subsect, a novella _**by JW Mariano

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

She'd used her dead mother's ring when she got married. Every time.

The first time, when she'd gotten knocked up, her father had given it to her so she could marry the bum, 'cause that's what had to be done---the right thing. She hadn't been able to meet her dad's eye when he'd silently pressed it into her palm, but she'd taken it anyway. He was pretty thin and worn down with the chemo by then, and it terrified her. So she was glad to take the ring. Glad to get the guy she thought she loved. Glad to get out of the house and away into the world. Glad to have found all she needed at last.

By the time Number Three had dropped from a heart attack, she was still wearing it: The slim, plain, fourteen carat gold band with the small square cut diamond (a whole eighth of a carat).

There were plenty of times she should have pawned it. One of the times she did, it had been to pay the vet bill when her friend Naomi's parrot Jasper got sick. But Number Three got it back for her so they could get married. She'd stayed sober for fourteen months for him because of that. That's just how sentimental she was.

When Number Three croaked getting a beer out of the 'frig in the kitchen on September twelfth at seven thirty in the evening, she had been talking to her friend Peg about reflexology on the little back patio where they stood in down jackets while Peg smoked.

The following week, on Peg's advice, she'd carefully cut the thick callouses from the bottoms of each of her big toes with cuticle scissors before going to the funeral, to keep her head clear.

"You need to feel the pain direct, honey, or you'll never get over him," said Peg sagely, "Bottom of the toe's a direct link to the head."

"Oh, Peg," she whispered, "I don't think I can ever look forward to anything ever again."

When he heard that, he wondered what part of the body corresponded to the heart.

When she got home from the wake, she'd stayed high for three straight days (Number Three's buddy Frank had forfeited his stash as a gesture of condolence).

The whole fucking funeral had sent her right over the edge.

It was about that time he realized that people always see what they want and do what they want, no matter what.

When Number Three's brother drove in to stay for a week over the funeral, she'd made him give over the cot in the living room where he usually slept, and handed him the old army surplus sleeping bag that smelled like mothballs.

"You can pretend you're camping," she told him.

He'd never been camping so he didn't have much of a reference for that, although the Hardy brothers often camped while working on a case. So he tried picturing that in his head as he lay in the dark living room listening to them all talk around the table, planning the funeral.

"He liked red," she told them all mistily, "I should get red flowers. Lots of red flowers."

"Oh, honey, that's beautiful," said Peg, "and red's a very powerful color."

"Flowers cost a helluva lot," reminded Number Three's brother. "The collection they took up at the garage won't run to flowers."

"Hey, Lizzie, you have them play some nice music too. Maybe you could get a band. He would have liked that," added Peg as she cracked open another beer.

"Yeah, a band," agreed Frank.

"We got to be practical," insisted the brother.

"What am I gonna do without him?" he heard his mother croak.

Followed bythe crying.

The crying that was an odd sort of comfort to him for its consistency in his life.

He thought then how she'd often told him about his grandparents. About when they'd been alive and together. In some small stupid town she hated when she was a girl.

She'd be drunk when she talked about them and drunk made her talkative. Chatty. Babbling. She always was that way after she and Peg or Naomi (when she was between husbands herself) had been to Tankards on Saturday night.

She'd come in to wake him when she got home, whatever the hour, needing to talk and talk and talk.

"Oh, baby," she'd moaned as she lay next to him, her arms wrapped around him. He would smell the beer and smoke wafting from her sweater as she squeezed him, but didn't care much because he liked it when she held him.

"Oh, baby. Where-oh-where and why-oh-why?" she'd begin, often followed by a sigh. "He doted on her, my old man. _Doted_ on her. The sun rose and set in her. That's how much he loved her, Jessie. He was never happier than when he was digging her a garden, or fixing some little knob or hook or hinge to make her life easier. And she would laugh and laugh. She had a big laugh, my mom, and he would smile... just beam..."

He learned the next part by heart, so many times he heard it through the years. So many times, and always in a drowsy surreal kind of state, his shivering mother cuddling him close as a child might her doll.

He'd learned quickly, though, that there were no words, none that he knew then at six, or later at nine, or ever really that could assuage her.

And no man that would care for her as her father had her mother. So, he also figured out early on, she just went about her life seeing what she wanted. Seeing what she wanted, always in men, until the truth was undeniably written in the weary circles under her eyes.

Novels could be read in those circles.

"Heart-broken when she died, Jess," the litany went on. "_Heartbroken_, sweetheart. Didn't fix knobs for a long, long time. Got sullen, got quiet. And I did what I could. I did what I could, baby. My brother became a ghost while I screamed and cried, but nothing changed him back. That's what heartbreak does, Jess. That's what it does... "

And soon she'd be asleep and he'd listen to her breathe, glad that she was close.

And later, when he was older, he got pissed about it all. And, yeah, he knew later in life that teenagers sometimes gotta be dicks to figure stuff out. But, boy, was he was pissed. Pissed that she needed some man to fix knobs, or dig gardens. Pissed that she couldn't just do it for herself. Or for him. Pissed that he'd become the ghost.

Pissed when she exorcized him and sent him away.

But on this dark night years before all that, as the plans for Number Three's funeral were debated at the table, as she begged for red flowers and he lay pretending he was with Frankand Joe on a case in the woods...

The Case of the Dead Stepfather...

...He wished, again, for a bed of his own. A room of his own with a bookshelf.

"Red flowers," she broke in at the brother again, "I tell you I want red flowers!"

"Well, you're gonna have to find the money for them yourself because I'm telling you there ain't any left after that fancy casket you picked out!"

"He was your brother!"

"Lay off her, man!" commanded Naomi.

"He didn't need no damn painting of the Last Supper to stare at for eternity plastered inside the lid. He hadn't been to a fucking church since he was nine years old!"

"He loved that painting," she whispered, her red eyes wide.

"Three hundred extra dollars that cost!"

"I don't care!" she cried, and fled to the bed in her room.

He tried to think what the Hardy Boys would have done on a night like this, though he knew better. The Hardy Boys would never be here.

And, two days later, as he sat in the front pew wearing the one collared shirt he owned, its cuffs creeping up beyond the little bones of his wrist, he inhaled deeply, catching the peculiar, unsweet odor of the abundant red carnations...

His mother's bare hand clutching onto his for dear life.


	9. Daughter

6.09 **_The Prodigal Daughter Returns_**. The next day.

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Mom?

Hey... It's Lorelai. I'm guessing you're out flying around in your jet up in the clouds some place just to make sure that Wild Blue Yonder Blue paint chip lives up to it's rep. If there's one thing I learned from you, it's that coordination matters. If I've heard you say it once, I've heard you say it a million times, 'It's the details that matter, Lorelai. The details. The little things.' And, right you were, Mom, right you were...

_(beep...)_

Yeah, so... Uh, it's me again. Lorelai! Your daughter. Got cut off. Someday some genius is going to invent an answering machine tape that will meet my loquacious needs and when they do I'm going to invest big, big, big, I tell ya. Suggest you do the same. So, where was I?... Oh right, the little things mattering...

_(beep...)_

I'm baaaaack! So, I've just had an evening with, Rory, Mom. A real evening. I am so proud of that girl, Mom. I hope you will be too. I know you're hurt that she left. I get that. I do. And I'm sorry. And I know she's going to say that to you too. But, try to be proud of her, Mom. There's a lot to be proud of. So... try to be proud... please...

_(beep...)_

I know you won't ever feel that way about me. And I've accepted that. But, you've just got to feel that way about, Rory, Mom. Just got to. Because what she's got, well... it comes through me from you. And that thing that comes through me from you to her is moxie with a capital M. I know you hate it when I'm 'mawkish'. I know you do, Mom. And I also know that you're probably the only woman in the western world with that word in her spoken vocabulary. It's just that... sorry, trying to get a grip on myself here... and I don't have one of those monogrammed handkerchiefs with me that you give me every year at Christmas. Sorry about that, by the way...

_(beep...)_

...I'm going to be better about keeping one of those with me from now on. I promise... Anyway, I know we don't always get along... I know you're disappointed in the way I live my life, but Rory is strong, Mom. She's strong... like you. And like me. But because of you... And she's going out to make a life of her own...

_(beep...)_

So, I guess my point is that we all learn by example. And you've set a helluva an example with your life, Lady. You have. You march on. You keep going. You always got your head up... Sorry, I'm babbling... But I got my daughter back last night... My beautiful daughter... And I want to thank you for that... And I want to say again, and I hope you hear me this time... I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry, Mom...

_(beep...)_

Ok, in summation: Emily Gilmore, you have shown us all what grit is. And I don't mean like grit in shower grout which is totally gross----and would never be in your shower grout at all! I mean it wouldn't dare! But in that Barbara Stanwyck way. And I mean the bleach blonde film noir shoot 'em through the heart while looking them in eye Barbara Stanwyck, as opposed to the earlier screwball Stanwyck...

_(beep...)_

Thank God you've got a long tape there, Lady. Anyway, Mom. Rory's going back to Yale. Rory's got a job on a newspaper. She's a strong, independent woman who is going out into the world to get... and give... what she wants.. So, be proud, Mom. Try... to just... be proud...

That's all, really...

_(beep...)_

Me again here... Mom... I love you...

_(beep...) _


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